


Draco Malfoy and the Hairy Heart

by thusspakekate (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 09:35:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thusspakekate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not a love story; this is a cautionary tale.</p><p><b>Featured Book:</b> “The Warlock's Hairy Heart” from <span class="u">The Tales of Beedle the Bard</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Draco Malfoy and the Hairy Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phoenixacid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixacid/gifts).



> This is a retelling of “The Warlock's Hairy Heart,” H/D style. Major thanks to my beta K for her help and her blessed patience. Any and all mistakes that may remain are entirely mine, since I can't seem to leave well enough alone and insist on mucking up K's hard work. The lines of poetry that Draco recites are John Keats', though I mean no disrespect. Thanks to the mods for putting this together and to all the other writers and artists for their contributions. This is one of my favorite fests and I'm so excited for this year's round!
> 
>  
> 
> **For major warnings (containing spoilers to the story), please check the notes at the end.**

  
  
Cover Design by Kitty_fic

  
  


The smell of rot clung to the air, a macabre perfume that evoked visceral scent-memories of lacerated bodies and piercing screams. Water trickled from an unknown source, its steady beat a metronome echoing loudly in the otherwise silent dungeon. Outside, the sun would be bright in the noon sky, but in here it was always dark, illuminated by a solitary torch that cast twisted, dancing shadows along the wall.

Draco's hand trembled as he pressed the tip of his wand to his chest, directly atop a half-faded scar. He closed his eyes, fresh tears slipping down his face, and pushed the wand into his skin hard enough to bruise.

A broken, brittle laugh escaped his cracked lips. What was a bruise compared to this?

He'd known the kiss of the Crucio, the easy slice of the Sectumsempra. Pain didn't scare him as it once had. He welcomed it like an old friend who'd come to call, like a lover who'd been away for far too long. What made his heart pound and his teeth chatter wasn't the thought of pain, but fear of what would become of him if the courage he'd spent his whole life chasing failed him now.

His mother's screams echoed inside his head. Visions of his father's sallow complexion and week-old stumble danced behind his eyelids. A man with a terrible face like a snake rose from the grave and pointed a long, spindly finger at him.

Chosen. A choice. An unwitting soldier, borne of duty and love.

Draco opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

He was weak and stupid. Incompetent and cowardly. Just like the snake-faced man had said.

What made him think he could do this? He hadn't been able to protect himself then, and he wouldn't be able to do it now. He'd spent his whole life trying to please and failing in turn. He had never been good enough: not as a student, a son, or a soldier. Everything he'd ever done had been for them, because he loved them, and where were they now that the war was over? Living in a half-burnt manor house, scraping by on a meager allowance from a distrustful government. There was no hope for him now. He had no future like this.

He'd already given up so much for them, and this was to be his final sacrifice.

The door to the dungeon creaked open and a sliver of pale light cut through the darkness. Draco scrambled towards the wall, pressing his back against the slime-covered stones, and held his breath.

His mother's voice floated down from the top of stairs. “Draco? Darling? Are you down here?”

His body shook as he fought the urge to rush to her, to throw himself in her arms and cry against her breast like he'd done as a child. But he wasn't a child anymore; he was a man now. No more hiding behind Mummy's skirts, no more running to Father with his petty problems.

It would be better like this, he reminded himself. Love had made him weak, made him vulnerable, made him the perfect stooge for Voldemort to manipulate. But his desperate clinging to a cloying sense of morality had stayed his hand, made him fail. He couldn't continue on like this, torn in two opposite directions, never knowing what was right and what was wrong but always ending up flat on his arse, staring at the business end of an angry wand. He just wanted it to stop. He didn't care anymore. It was the caring that was killing him.

His mother's footsteps retreated. “Where on earth could he be?” he heard her mutter.

When the light from the hallway had disappeared and the door latched shut, Draco exhaled. He crawled back to the center of the room. If he was going to do this, he had to do it now, before he had the chance to change his mind.

Sitting back on his heels, he took a deep breath and exhaled, emptying his mind of all thought as he emptied his lungs of air. He imagined himself as he wanted to be: strong, independent, powerful. Nobody's whipping boy. He barely felt the tip of his wand against his chest this time. The esoteric spell he'd found in the darkest recesses of his father's library slid off tongue like a familiar lullaby.

White-hot heat burst from the end of his wand, searing the smooth skin of his chest, slicing a thick, jagged line into his flesh. He steeled himself against the pain and pushed through the incantation, sucking air into his burning lungs through gritted teeth.

It wasn't the first time he'd been butchered by dark magic, but this spell penetrated deeper than the others, through layers of soft flesh and tender muscle. His ribcage cracked. He gasped and doubled over, his wand slipping from his grip and clattering to the ground, rolling away to rest in an oozing pool of warm blood.

Bracing himself on one arm, Draco pressed his head against the stone floor, squeezing his eyes shut as he rode out the dizzying waves that threatened to pull him under. Time had no meaning. The only thing that existed was the crippling pain.

Slowly, it receded like a tide returning to the sea. The world came back into focus, though the edges were distorted.

With a steadying breath, Draco sat up and fingered the smooth planes of his chest until he found the place where the firmness of his flesh gave way. He bit the inside of his cheek, his mouth filling with the bitter taste of copper, and pushed his hand into the gash, crying out in pain and disgust as his fist sunk inside his own body. His fingers brushed over smooth muscle and hard bone to curl around his beating heart. He could feel it pounding against his palm, warm and slimy and repulsively alive.

There was no turning back now. He closed his eyes and counted to three.

On the third count, he gave a ferocious cry, his scream getting caught in his throat and his vision going white as he tore his own heart from inside his chest.

He stared at it in disbelief, sitting in his palm like an overripe piece of fruit, continuing to pulse its rapid but steady beat.

His hands trembled as he set it inside the small, velvet-lined glass casket he'd purchased at Borgin & Burkes. He could already feel his body beginning to heal itself as the spell worked its way through his body, the bones resetting, the muscle fibers knitting back together.

He groped the ground blindly with his blood-soaked hands, searching for his fallen wand. This time he whispered a healing spell, wincing as his parted flesh stitched itself back together completely. His entire body ached, the throbbing in his pectoral muscles nearly blinded him, but he was alive. Aside from the anguishing pain and a nasty, new scar that would never properly heal, he'd come out of it relatively unscathed.

Hysterical laughter bubbled up and out him, rocking his thin frame. He had done it. He had actually fucking succeeded this time. He was going mad, he could feel it. The room began to spin, and he fell to the ground, digging his fingers into the stone, trying to hold on to the floor as the world tilted around him.

Everything went black.

  
***

_Twelve Years Later_

Draco stared out of the window, ignoring the idle chatter of the women at the table. He was more interested in watching the squirrels scamper around the garden than he was in their gossip. His mother's dogged insistence that he take tea with her that afternoon had been a surprise, until he strolled into the conservatory and found her whispering with a pretty blonde witch in a white cotton dress. The woman looked vaguely familiar, but it wasn't until introductions were made that he remembered how he knew her.

Astoria was the younger sister of his classmate Daphne. When they'd been in school, she had followed her older sister around like an abused puppy, gluing herself to Daphne's side no matter how hard the older girl tried to shake her. Time had been kind to Astoria, but she hadn't quite lost that mealy, church-mouse quality that had so annoyed him in school.

Draco was polite at first, asking after her sister and the rest of her family, but whenever Astoria spoke, she'd blush and drop her gaze. After a short time, he grew irritated and chose to ignore her.

“Draco, are you listening?”

He tore his gaze away from the rolling hills beyond the wide windows and turned his head towards his mother. She was watching him, her eyebrows raised, tension in the corner of her pursed lips.

“Not really.” He sighed. “What were you saying?”

His mother's nostrils flared. She set her tea down and smoothed her hands over the crisp white table linen. “Astoria was telling me that she's just finished her training at St Mungo's. Come next week, she's going to be a fully licensed Healer in the pediatrics ward.”

“Oh, really?” he asked, not bothering to sound the least bit interested. “How interesting.”

There was a tic in his mother's jaw, the one she always got when she was irritated with him. But she always seemed to be irritated with him these days.

Still, Narcissa soldiered on. “And I was just telling Astoria about your new promotion. Draco's the first wizard to hold an executive position at Gringotts.”

“What can I say?” said Draco, snagging a piece of fruit from the silver platter in the middle of the table and plopping it into his mouth. “I like Goblins more than I like people.”

His mother gave a brittle laugh and reached for Astoria's arm. “He's joking, of course.”

“Am not.”

“Yes, you are.”

Draco rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the window. He could feel the heat of his mother's glare on the side of his face, but didn't care. The women returned to their conversation and he tuned them out once more, focusing instead on compiling a mental list of all of the things he needed to do in the office on Monday. His mother wasn't wrong to brag about the prestige of his new position, but it did come with a laundry list of new responsibilities.

The air in the conservatory was too humid, and a persistent fly buzzed around his head. Despite these mild annoyances, Draco was perfectly content to sit there, existing in the same space with these people, as long as he didn't have to interact.

It wasn't until he overheard a particularly shocking piece of social news that his interest was piqued.

“What did you just say?” he asked, turning sharply.

His mother shot him a look that screamed _mind your manners,_ and answered, “I had lunch with Viola Parkinson yesterday. Pansy's pregnant.”

Draco blinked. “That's--” he didn't quite know what it was, or how he was supposed to feel about it. “That's surprising.” He reached for another piece of fruit. “Who's the father?”

Astoria's eyes went wide and his mother's mouth fell open.

“Her husband, one would assume!”

“One _would_ assume, yes. But come on, this is Pansy we're talking about.” He grinned, amused by the blush that was creeping up Astoria's neck. “Although I guess it had to happen eventually, considering the family she married into. Just what this already overpopulated world needs: another generation of ginger-haired paupers.”

“Draco--” his mother's tone was sharp, her pale face growing an unflattering shade of red, “watch your tongue; the Parkinsons are our friends. And even if the Weasleys on the whole are a bit... eccentric... Percy is a fine, ambitious young man with a good head on his shoulders and the right pedigree. Pansy could have done a lot worse for herself, all things considered.” She paused and gave him a pointed look. “And I don't think _you_ are in any position to judge other people's marital choices.”

If she'd intended to shame or embarrass him, she'd failed spectacularly. Did she really think he couldn't see right through her flimsy machinations? The closer to thirty he got, the less subtle her hints that he should marry became. Astoria wasn't the first eligible witch she'd trotted out for him to see. Quite frankly, he was surprised that his mother still had the nerve. He thought he'd put an end to this tedious charade the previous month, when some unfortunate-looking girl named Marietta had left dinner in tears.

“Have you given any thought to starting a family of your own?” Narcissa asked, turning to Astoria, her voice suddenly as smooth as honey and sweet as sugar. “Women in my day never worked after they had their first child, but I understand that some women in your generation prefer to continue their careers.”

Astoria's soft blue eyes flickered back and forth between them. “I... I haven't given it much thought,” she stammered, looking for all the world like she would rather be in the darkest cell of Azkaban. “You've got to have someone to start a family with before you can make those sorts of decisions.”

“Oh, but of course!” Narcissa smiled and squeezed Astoria's knee. “I was just speaking hypothetically. Viola said that Pansy is going to quit working. I think it's for the best. Motherhood is a full-time job in itself; I'd hate to see a clever young woman such as Pansy—or yourself—spread too thin.”

Narcissa smiled warmly. Astoria tried to do the same.

Draco set his tea back on the table. He was utterly done with this conversation. “As lovely as this little chat was, I must be off. I've got plans with Greg.”

He grinned when his mother's teacup clinked loudly against the saucer. “I hope you're not planning to go to _that_ place again.”

“What place?” chirped Astoria.

“Just this lovely little brothel in Knockturn Alley.” Draco stood and smoothed out the non-existent wrinkles in his trousers. “They provide excellent customer service, if you catch my meaning. Greg and I and very loyal patrons,” he added with a leer. “Well, I must be off. Cheerio.”

Turning on his heel, Draco smiled to himself as he strolled out of the conservatory. He could hear someone—probably his mother—sputtering behind him. Astoria's jaw had fallen open, her eyes gone wide. He would cherish that look until the day he died.

Just when he thought he was free, he felt someone grab his wrist. Dammit. For a woman her age, his mother was surprisingly stealthy. He turned, trying to pries her hand from around his wrist, but she held on tight, fingernails digging into his skin.

“What has got into you?” she demanded in a quiet hiss. “You were a colicky baby, a fussy child, and a bratty teenager, but this is just beyond acceptable, Draco. You are twenty-nine years old! Do you enjoy embarrassing me?”

Draco snatched his hand away, clutching it to his chest as though wounded. “Quit bringing these insipid women around for me to meet, if you don't want to be embarrassed. For the millionth time, Mother, I have no interest in marriage. I've already more than done my part as the dutiful son. If it wasn't for my generosity, you and Father would be out on the street by now. So unless you want to find someone else to pay the taxes on this house for you, I suggest you fuck off.”

Narcissa gasped, taking a step back and covering her mouth with her hand. “What did you say to me?” she asked, voice trembling. She reached out with one hand, tears welling in her eyes. “What has happened to you, my love? What has happened to my darling baby boy?”

Draco stepped out of her reach, his lip curling. What sentimental nonsense, what utterly repulsive tripe. “He died,” he said coldly, turning his back on her. “Didn't you know, Mother? There was a war on, and he died in it.”

  
***

There was nothing remarkable about the day his parents left for France. Draco woke, showered, and joined them for breakfast. His mother barely nibbled at the corners of her pastry and his father sequestered himself behind his newspaper. They ate in their usual silence. When the house-elves had cleared away the plates, Draco followed them to the foyer, where their luggage sat waiting.

He looked into his father's eyes as he shook his hand goodbye. It was like looking into a mirror, seeing the same steely-gray reflected back at him. His father's eyes were made for observing, his mother's for expressing. Hers were soft and watery, with paper-thin eyelids that had gone red and puffy from years of endless crying. Sometimes, he couldn't stand to look at her.

“You'll come and visit us?” she asked, reaching out to stroke his cheek, a vast sea of uncertainty swelling in the foot of space between them.

Draco just managed to stop himself from squirming out of her reach like a petulant teenager being dropped off at Platform 9¾. Instead, he smiled, the same charming smile he'd practiced in his mirror so many times before. “Of course I will, Mother. I'll miss you both.”

She let out a sigh of relief, a smile spreading across her face. The tension in her stiffly held shoulders melted away. “You'll always be my darling boy,” she breathed, pulling him into a tight hug, peppering his cheek with kisses.

Draco stood stiff as a plank of wood as he suffered her assault, reminding himself that a bit of maternal affection was a small price to pay for the deed to the Manor.

Graciously, his father stepped in, taking his wife by the elbow. “Come along, dear. We'll miss our Portkey.”

With the quiet click of the door they were gone.

  
***

It took months to renovate the Manor after his parents' departure. The woodwork had to be refinished, the tapestries cleaned, the marble updated. Hundreds of family heirlooms were sold or donated, replaced by modern collectables to reflect Draco's modern tastes. The prize of his collection, a small glass box from Borgin & Burkes, was taken from its hiding place in his bedroom and moved to the top shelf in the master suite.

He reopened the doors to the Manor on the eve of his thirtieth birthday, admitting a swell of friends, colleagues, and Very Important People. They gaped as they flocked through the entrance hall; their eyes bugged as the took in the ballroom. It seemed the whole of wizarding Britain had turned up, old money and new, pureblood and Muggleborn alike. Draco's chest expanded with pride as he watched their eyes turn green with envy.

Presents piled high on the dining room table as specially hired servers in livery skirted through the throng of bodies with silver platters of champagne and canapes. Draco flitted from group to group, thanking them for their attendance, graciously accepting their well-wishes, and offering private tours of the grounds to a select few.

On his way back to the party from a tour of his meticulously manicured garden he spotted two of his old schoolmates sitting on the marble staircase in the entrance hall. Blaise was sprawled across the stairs with his usual air of languid self-importance, a flute of champagne dangling precariously between his fingers. Pansy sat straighter, with one hand absently gliding over her protuberant midsection, a far-away look in her eyes.

He made to approach, but stopped short at the sound of his own name. He hid himself behind a pillar, back against the cold marble and ears straining.

“I just feel sorry for him, you know. All alone in this enormous house, no one to share it with.”

“Your maternal instincts are kicking in a bit prematurely,” Blaise answered with a wry chuckle. “I know you've always fussed over him, but he's already got a mother.”

“Does he? His parents are gone. They've finally given up on him.”

Draco could hear the roll of Blaise's eyes in the tone his of voice. “They've _retired_. Moving out of country doesn't mean they've abandoned him.”

“No, but he's abandoned them.” There was the sound of rustling skirts, and then Pansy's voice continued, lower. “Mother and I had lunch with Narcissa the week before she left. She was beside herself. Something's wrong with him, has been for years, but she doesn't know what or how to help him. You've got to admit that he's changed, Blaise. He's not the same Draco that we knew in school.”

Blaise sighed. “The Draco we knew in school was a sniveling little turd. Besides, we've all changed. It's called growing up.”

There was a long pause before Pansy finally responded, sounding unconvinced. “Maybe... But still, you've got to admit it's not healthy. He hasn't had a proper relationship since... well, since me! And that was fifteen years ago. What's the point of having all of this if you don't share it with someone? You should hear the way people talk about him down at the Ministry, like he's already some old miser. It's just...it makes me so sad. ”

Pansy began to sniffle and Blaise began to chuckle. “Oh Merlin, Parks, come here. Hormones acting up again? Let's got find Percy before you ruin your makeup.”

Draco held his breath as they climbed to their feet. He heard Pansy's soft grunt and smiled inwardly. The fat cow deserved every bit of physical discomfort she felt. Listen to her, fretting over someone who didn't need her concern. If she put half as much energy into making something of herself as she did into meddling in other people's affairs, she might have been something more than a Weasley's broodmare. He hoped she enjoyed her tiny life of changing shit-stained nappies and cleaning ginger curlies from the shower drain.

When he was sure Blaise and Pansy were gone, he straightened his cuffs, smoothed down his hair, and made his way back into the party.

  
***

“Have you met my wife?”

Draco turned, already annoyed. Theo, what a pretentious twat. Despite their age, neither had ever been willing to give up their schoolboy rivalry: first, to be the best student; then, the best junior Death Eater; and now, the most influential member of pure-blood society. Still, he plastered on his best smile and took the hand of the smiling blonde witch at Theo's side.

“Charmed,” he said smoothly, bending down to press a dry kiss on the top of her hand. Her tittering giggle was like fingernails against a chalkboard to his ears. He straightened and turned to Theo. “I didn't realize you'd got married. Should I be offended that I didn't receive an invitation?”

“Nah,” said Theo, flicking his long fringe from his forehead with a toss of his head. Draco's hands itched to take a pair of shears to the ridiculous mop top. “We had the wedding in France, where Gabrielle's family lives. Traditional Veela bonding ceremony, you know. Rather intimate.”

Draco couldn't stop his eyebrows from raising. “You've married a Veela?”

“Only a quarter Veela,” the woman in question interjected, reaching up to stroke the long blonde braid that was pulled over her shoulder. The eyelashes through which she looked up at him were long, thick, and black.

Theo put a possessive arm around her waist. “But a Veela nonetheless.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice low so that only Draco could hear. “They make the best wives,” he whispered. “Submissive, doting, limber. But get them riled up, and they can be real animals, if you know what I mean.”

Draco pulled away, his face stretched into a tight smile that would have given him wrinkles around the eyes if he hadn't been using Doctor Wimbeldy's Miraculous Anti-Aging Potion for years. “I'm sure I don't.”

“Your loss then.” Theo turned to his wife. “Come along, doll. I want to introduce you to the Minister.”

Draco watched them walk away, noting the swing of the Veela girl's hips and the way the eyes of every man in the room lingered on her arse as she walked past them. He saw the way the Minister's face lit up as they were introduced, how his gaze lingered longer than strictly appropriate.

Perhaps taking a wife wasn't a horrible idea. Not for the reasons his mother had always insisted: to share his life with, to take comfort from, to grow old and die together, blah blah blah. But the right wife, one who would look good on his arm and would charm his business contacts? That was just good sense. Besides, he couldn't let Theo think he could snag a more desirable mate than he.

Scanning the ballroom, Draco dismissed women as quickly as his eyes settled on them. Too fat, too short, too stupid, too poor. Was there no woman in the damn country worthy of him? He needed someone respected, someone wealthy, someone with influence. He needed someone equal to himself, as if that were even possible.

Theo and his wife had left the Minister, and there way someone new standing at his side. A tall, slender man with a shock of messy dark hair and a very famous scar.

The only thing wrong with Harry Potter was that he wasn't a woman. But Draco was a forward-thinking man, he could look past that. In fact, it might even be better that way. Potter would probably cry less than a woman, wouldn't nag him to share his feelings or cuddle after sex.

He paused, frowning as he wondered whether or not he could have sex with another man. Everyone with a subscription to the _Prophet_ knew that Potter had no such compunction, he'd been out and proud for years. A hole was a hole, wasn't it? And if Draco didn't like it, well, it wasn't exactly a love match. He could have his whores and Potter could have his gay lovers, and together they would be the most powerful couple in Britain.

Draco smiled to himself. He had found his mark.

  
***

“Potter.”

Harry Potter looked up, startled. He had been leaning over the bar that Draco had had constructed in the corner of the ballroom specifically for the party. Now he stood at attention, a wary expression on his face as he sized Draco up.

“Malfoy.”

“I have to admit,” Draco said, waving down the bartender, “I'm surprised to see you here. Pleasantly surprised, but surprised nonetheless.”

“I hadn't planned on coming, but Hannah really wanted to.”

Draco nodded in thanks as the bartender refilled his empty glass. “Back to women, then? I'm disappointed to hear that.”

Potter gave him a strange look and shook his head. “No, she's Neville's wife. Or, ex-wife rather. She really wanted to come, but didn't want to go alone and...” He trailed off, picking his drink up from the bar top. “She's had a rough time of it recently. I thought it was the least I could do.”

“How noble of you.” Draco held Potter's gaze as he brought his drink to his lips. “Swooping in once again to be the hero.”

Draco watched as Potter stood straighter; he could practically see the hair on the back of Potter's neck rise. “Don't start with that shit, Malfoy. I'm really not in the mood.”

“Oh no,” Draco said quickly, doing his best to sound contrite. “You misunderstand me. The impulse to help others is an admirable quality. I didn't mean to imply otherwise.”

Potter's posture relaxed a fraction, though he still held suspicion in his green eyes.

“Look, I know we haven't always gotten on, you and I,” Draco continued, “but we're adults now. The war has been over for more than a decade. The world has moved on and so should we.” He stuck out his hand. “I'd like to start over.”

Potter eyed the outstretched hand with apprehension. Draco could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to suss out whether or not this was a trap. It annoyed him, but he schooled his face blank and waited patiently, until Potter finally reached out and took his hand in a short, quick handshake.

“There. That wasn't so hard, was it?”

Potter shot him a half-hearted glare and turned back towards the bar. But Draco wasn't done with him, not nearly. He sidled next to Harry, so close that the lines of their bodies pressed together. Potter scooted away an inch and Draco followed. He turned around and leaned his elbows on the bar top, striking a pose so casual it almost felt foreign. “In the spirit of new beginnings, I'd like to invite you to dinner tomorrow.”

Potter raised an eyebrow and looked at him from the corner of his eye. “You're serious?”

“Of course I'm serious, Harry. I can call you Harry, can't I?”

Potter—or rather, Harry—looked around. He probably thought one of his mates was going to pop out from behind a potted plant and tell him this had all been a practical joke. “Uh, sure, I guess.”

“I'd like to invite you to dinner tomorrow, Harry. It's for my birthday. This--” Draco gestured to the party around them, “--is just a little something for everyone, my gift to the season's social calendar. Tomorrow is my real birthday celebration and I'd be happy if you would come. It will be a much smaller, intimate occasion here at the Manor.”

Harry frowned and studied his drink. It was clear he did not want to come, but Draco was counting on his famous inability to say no to a heartfelt plea. He waited patiently, eyes wide and sincere, until Harry sighed and swallowed the rest of his drink in one shot. “What time?” he asked with a resigned sigh.

Draco smiled brightly. “Seven o'clock. And not a minute later.”

Harry set down his empty glass and fished a few sickles from his pocket. He threw them in the tip jar. “Fine, I'll be there. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go somewhere where things still make sense.” He shoved away from the bar and disappeared into the crowd.

  
***

Draco was just finishing his hair when Trilly popped into existence at his side and announced Harry's arrival. He instructed the bubbly house-elf to escort Harry to the conservatory and inform his esteemed guest that he would be down promptly. With the elf gone, Draco took a final look at himself in the mirror and nodded. With Potter by his side, he would have the Ministry in his pocket. All he had to do was woo the man.

But that shouldn't be too hard.

When Draco arrived in the conservatory, Harry was examining the thin leaves of tall, rubbery tree that towered feet above him. “That's a _Veneficae Arecaceae_ ,” Draco said, stepping up behind him. “Otherwise known as the Witch's Palm.”

Harry jumped, whipping around with his hand to his chest. He leaped back, nearly knocking into the potted tree behind him. “Jesus Christ, Malfoy. You nearly gave me a heart attack. Make some noise, would you?”

“Draco,” he corrected. “You should call me Draco, if I'm to call you Harry. And I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you.”

Harry side-stepped away. “It's all right. I guess I'm kind of jumpy sometimes.”

Draco gave his warmest smile, the one his mother had always used when she was playing her role as hostess to perfection, and walked towards the small round table by the windows. He motioned for Harry to take a seat. “I'm not surprised, considering your line of work. I'm sure its saved your life on more than one occasion.”

Harry shrugged and approached the table cautiously. He eyed the elaborate spread with trepidation. “Mal—er, Draco. There are only two places set.”

Draco settled himself in his seat and spread his cloth napkin across his lap. “Of course there are. Were you expecting more?”

“Well, I just thought... I mean, I didn't expect it would be just us.” He hovered behind his seat, his fingers curled around the wood of the chair's back. “I thought this was going to be a dinner party or something. For your birthday.”

“It is.” Draco lifted the lid off of the silver platter in the middle, revealing two small stuffed quails. “See? Here's dinner.”

Slowly, Harry sank into his seat. Draco ignored the look of abject misery that surrounded him.

“I was serious yesterday,” he said as he served Harry one of the quails, “about wanting a new start between us. I've been doing a lot of thinking these past few months, about my life and the decisions I've made, about the relationships I have with people. You'll understand better when you reach my age--”

“You're only a month older than me,” Harry interrupted.

“Well then maybe you already know what I'm talking about.” Draco lifted the rest of the lids, to reveal a variety of side items and began to serve them to himself and Harry in turn. “I've been thinking a lot about the people in my life, and my thoughts keep returning to you. I feel as though we have some unfinished business, you and I.”

He watched Harry's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. “Draco... is that your knee?”

Draco stared at him, his grey eyes bearing into green. “If it were?”

Under the table, Harry snatched his leg away and averted his gaze. An embarrassed flush was creeping up his neck, staining his cheeks red. He said nothing, just reached for his goblet of water.

Draco lowered his eyes and leaned forward, whispering, “Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.”

Harry paused, his goblet hovering in midair. “Sorry?”

“I almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days. Three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.”

Harry set his goblet down and turned, blinking rapidly. “Malfoy... are you...”

“I will imagine you Venus tonight, and pray to your star like a heathen.”

Harry's mouth fell open. He sat staring at Draco for one moment with his mouth agape before it snapped shut and a great peel of laughter shook his frame. “Oh my god,” he said, reaching down to clutch his belly. “You are. You actually are. Holy shit, Malfoy. You're trying to chat me up! What kind of chat-up lines are those, anyway?”

Draco frowned. Laughter was not the response he had anticipated. He'd spent an hour in his father's library, searching through the limited poetry collection for those lines. Wasn't that the sort of thing that people wanted to hear their lovers say? “Call me Draco,” he corrected sourly.

As Harry's laughter trailed away, so did his wariness. “Oh, man, Draco, I'm sorry. But this all makes sense now. All the 'thinking' you've been doing lately? Look, I'm flattered. But just because I'm gay doesn't mean you can just use me to explore you sexual identity crisis. Despite what some people seem to think, gay blokes don't just fuck every other gay bloke they meet.” He reached over and placed his hand on top of Draco's. “If you want, I can take you to this club in London, introduce you around. You should find someone you actually like to experiment with.”

Draco stared at Harry's hand on his, dinner entirely forgotten. He shook his head. This wasn't right at all. “No, it's not... it's not blokes. I don't want to be with just any bloke. I want...” he trailed off, knowing he couldn't say that he wanted to be associated with Harry because of his popularity, influence, and obscenely large Gringotts account.

“You want what?” Harry asked, humor dancing in his voice. “To become butterflies and pray to my star?”

Draco snatched his hand away, shoving it into his lap. He could feel hot humiliation creeping up on him, prickling his skin. He wanted to lash out at Potter, to avenge his wounded pride. But that would be counterproductive, he reminded himself, so he swallowed down his temper. His plan hadn't worked; he'd just have to adapt. Potter liked playing the hero and had an infamously soft heart that Draco could exploit.

“I don't know how to do this,” he said in the tone of an admission, forcing misery into his voice with ease.

The good humor slipped from Harry's face, replaced instantly by concern. He scooted closer in his chair. “Malfoy, is this for real? You don't actually fancy me, do you?”

Instead of answering, Draco just shrugged and looked away.

A long silence permeated the still air of the conservatory. Eventually, Potter exhaled. “Well, shit. I wasn't expecting that,” he muttered. “Look, Mal—Draco, I'm sorry if I've hurt your feelings, but this is sort of sudden, don't you think? I mean, we've barely spoken for the past decade. And I just... I need some time to wrap my head around it, all right? I've always thought of you as this real heartless bastard, and I'm honestly not even sure what to think about all this.”

Draco's head snapped up. “But I have a heart!” he said urgently. “Harry, I have a heart.”

“Well of course, literally. Everyone does. But I meant like... I don't know. You never seem to really--”

“No,” Draco interrupted. Harry didn't seem to understand. Draco had a heart, specifically _his_ heart, sitting up in his room. If that was Harry's only objection to their alliance, it could be easily fixed. He'd just put his heart back in, and then he and Harry could join forces. They'd be the most powerful couple in the Wizarding World. Draco let out a breathless puff of laughter. God, this was so simple. “Come on, I'll show you.”

  
***

Harry hovered in the doorway to Draco's bedroom, his posture stiff and on alert. Draco transfigured a stack of books into a foot stool and climbed on, reaching for the small glass casket that sat on the uppermost shelf.

“Come Harry, have a look.”

Harry took a hesitant step into the room. “I don't like where this is going,” he said quietly. “What have you got in the box?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “It's my heart,” he said, lifting the lid.

Inside the box, atop of a bed of red velvet, lay a shriveled black heart, pumping weakly. Well beyond wizened, the formerly smooth muscle was covered in a thick layer of coarse hair. It emitted a foul stench of decay so strong it overpowered every other scent in the room.

“Oh my god,” Harry gasped, taking a blind step backwards and covering his nose with his sleeve. “Holy shit, Malfoy. What the fuck is that?”

“I already told you. It's my heart.”

Harry shook his head and backed away. He hit the wall behind him.

Perhaps it was fear, or maybe morbid curiosity that pinned him in place, but Harry didn't move a muscle as Draco approached, holding the casket out to him. “See Harry? You were wrong. I do have one.”

“But that's impossible,” Harry whispered. He looked up, his eyes searching Draco's. “What have you done? This is Dark Magic, Malfoy. _Really_ Dark Magic.”

Draco peered into the casket, lips pursed thoughtfully as he studied its contents, the heart atrophied from years of neglect.

“I suppose so,” he conceded with a shrug. “But it had to be done. I wouldn't be the man I am today if I if I hadn't liberated myself from the tyranny of caring. But I'll put it back if you like. If that's what it takes to have you, I'll do it.”

Harry shook his head again, but no words came out. He watched with horror and disgust as Draco raised his wand to his chest and cast a spell he'd never heard before.

There was a flash of light, a sharp cry, and then Draco fell to the ground and was silent. Harry hesitated a moment before cursing and rushing to his side. His hands became wet with blood as he hauled Draco onto his back, pressing his fingers over the gushing wound to stop the bleeding. “You idiot,” he cried. “What the fuck have you done?”

He held onto Draco as his body convulsed silently, twisting into unnaturally bent and broken poses. Draco's eyelids fluttered as his eyes rolled back, exposing only the pale whites. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

After what seemed like an eternity, Draco's body stilled completely. Panic swept through Harry as he shook Draco's shoulder, calling his name.

“Malfoy? Come on, please don't be dead. Goddammit, Malfoy, you fucking arse. Don't fucking do this to me. Draco?”

Draco stirred weakly. “The heart,” he coughed, his lips barely moving. “Put it back.”

Shards of glass pricked Harry's hands as he searched through the wreckage of the broken casket for Draco's heart. The stench of rotted flesh invaded his nostrils and he fell over, his stomach cramping. He could feel bile rising in his throat, the scant contents of his empty stomaching churning. His fingers searched the blood-soaked carpet until he found the repulsive, shrunken heart and crawled back to Draco's twitching side.

Harry closed his eyes and tried not to think about what he was doing as peeled back Draco's torn shirt. The gaping wound stood out against the stark white of Draco's chest; it was wet and warm and utterly sick. Harry nearly retched at how easily his hand was sucked between the parted flesh.

With the heart back inside, he wrenched his hand free, staring in disgust at the bright red glove of blood he now wore. Beneath him, Draco began to splutter. Harry crawled backwards, eyes wide and unblinking as he watched Draco's hands claw at his chest and his body twist and turn in agony.

One hand reached out, grasping blindly for him. Harry could hear Draco groaning, moaning something unintelligible as he writhed on the floor. Cautiously, Harry scooted forward, bending down so he could hear.

“Whats that? Tell me, Draco. What do you need?”

Draco's fingers curled around the front of Harry's shirt, gathering a thick handful of fabric. He yanked Harry towards him, teeth grit and voice barely more than bare growl.

“It's wrong,” he groaned. “Out. Out. Get it out!”

Draco's plea ended in a terrible, piercing shriek as his entire body seized. Harry tried to crawl away, but Draco's grip strengthened; he grabbed Harry's shirt by the other hand and pulled him down again, until their faces were mere inches apart and Harry could feel the sticky wetness of Draco's blood begin to soak through his own clothing.

Draco's voice was barely more than a whisper, though his entire body shook with violence. “I need... I need...”

“Tell me, Draco!” Harry cried desperately. This mad situation was quickly spiraling out of control. He felt desperate, helpless, completely unsure of what to do. “Tell me what you need!”

Draco's eyes snapped open, and even in the darkness of the room Harry could see they weren't right. They were wild, like an animal gone rabid.

“It's wrong, it's wrong,” he moaned, shaking his head. “It's all wrong.”

“What's wrong? Draco! Talk to me!”

Draco's eyes refocused and found Harry's. Their gazes held for two short breaths, before Draco lunged with a ferocious cry, knocking Harry onto his back. Harry kicked out, but Draco was too quick, too strong. He pinned Harry below him, tearing at this shirt, clawing at his chest, all while chanting, “It's wrong, it's wrong, it's wrong.”

His fingernails were sharp. Blood blossomed from the lines they trailed on Harry's chest. There was no one to yell for, no one to come and save him. He struggled under Draco's assault, flailing in any direction, trying desperately to dislodge the crazed man who was sat across his stomach, trying to tear him apart.

Harry shot up, cracking his skull against Draco's with such force he was sure he heard the sickening crunch of breaking bone. With a pained scream, Draco let him go, lifting his blood-stained hands to his face, cradling his bleeding nose. Harry shoved him away and tried not to look at the little bits of skin and flesh that were stuck beneath Draco's fingernails, but he knew from the hot pain of open wounds on his chest that they were there.

Harry pulled out his wand and scrambled away as Draco crumpled to the floor, one hand still cupping his face, the other reaching out, twisting in the plush carpet beneath him. “Get it out,” he begged, his voice wet and scratchy. “It's wrong, all it's wrong. Get it out.”

Harry couldn't move. Fear kept him rooted in place, his wand outstretched defensively. “I can't,” he choked out, voice breaking. He'd never seen something so terrible, heard a plea so piteous. “I don't know what to do.”

Draco was crawling, heaving his bent and broken body across the floor. His pace was sluggish, the enormous strain of it evident in his wheezing groans. There was a trail of blood behind him, mapping the path he'd crawled to Harry's feet. Closer and closer, but slower and slower, until finally, his strength gave out and he fell against the floor, face down and twitching.

Silence filled the room, broken only by Harry's panting gulps for air. “Malfoy?” he whispered into the darkness.

No response.

Carefully, Harry crawled towards Draco's crumpled body. He reached out, poking it tentatively with the tip of his wand, ready to spring away if he stirred.

Nothing.

“Malfoy?” he tried again.

Swallowing down the acidic bile that had climbed into his throat, Harry took Draco by the shoulders and turned him over. Draco's body flopped easily onto his back, and his head lolled to the side. The feral intentness of a crazed animal was gone from his eyes. In its place was nothingness.

  
***

Harry pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and focused on the hot cup of tea in his hands. He didn't want to drink it, but holding it made him feel better. It was real. It was normal. It was just a cup of tea.

Around him, a small army of Aurors and Mediwizards hurried past, buzzing quietly as they cataloged this and examined that. He looked away as the gurney was wheeled past, a body-shaped lumped discreetly hidden beneath a starched white sheet. He couldn't process what had happened, what he'd seen. The Mediwizards called it shock. Somehow, the blanket was supposed to make it go away.

Hermione arrived, donned in the navy blue robes of the Unspeakables. She was in the Dark Magic division; Harry should have expected she'd be called in. She sat at his side, taking his hand in hers. She didn't speak, just held on tight.

The world began to slow down. The corners of his vision came back into focus and the noises in the background separated into discernible sounds. Harry hung his head, reality sinking in, pushing out the stubborn disbelief, the refusal to accept that something like this could possibly have happened.

“You can't blame yourself,” Hermione said softly. “There was nothing you could have done. He was dead the moment he cast that spell the first time.”

Harry stared at the milky tea in his hands. “For once, I actually don't blame myself. I don't even know what happened up there. What hell of a spell was that anyway?”

Hermione looked away. “One we didn't think actually existed. We always thought it was just a myth, something out of a fairytale. Makes you wonder how many other of those old fairy stories we use to scare children into eating their vegetables and respecting their mums are based on truth.”

Harry frowned. “But I thought fairytales were supposed to have happy endings?”

Hermione's face was grim as they watched the Mediwizards position the gurney inside the Floo and call out their destination: the morgue at St Mungo's. She shook her head sadly and said, “No, Harry. Not this one.”

  
_the end_   


**Author's Note:**

> Content/warnings: This story contains mild gore, violence, and major character death.
> 
> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or [on Livejournal](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/61418.html).


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